The Second Choice
by Mary in the Stars
Summary: "Now you open the bottle with slow, calculated movements and empty its contents into your palm. If you swallow them now, would you be immortalized forever?" How Ivy experiences the final scene of "Bombshell."


The Second Choice

"_...but there are some born to shine who can't do it alone, so protect them and take special care..."_

The audience takes in a collective breath of awe as she stands onstage, dripping in sequins, Marilyn reincarnate. They applaud, waves of love washing over the footlights, bathing the actress in immortality. They love her, they want her, they won't forget her. They adore her.

Iowa.

They adore...Iowa. Caught up in the thrill and pathos of Marilyn Monroe's life in song, they pour their love for the real thing onto an imitation. Even though her Marilyn voice sounds artificial and "Wolf" was unimpressive and do we even need to compare bodies here? There are some things you can't fake. Curves are one of them.

They don't even know what they're missing, because you are in your dressing room, waiting for bows. Offstage. Not dripping in sequins. Not pouring all your energy into that eleven o'clock number. Does Iowa even know why it's called an eleven o'clock number? You're not sure, but a few weeks ago she needed to be reminded where downstage was, so anything's possible.

Your mother was right – all signs pointed to you getting this part, You, who knows the show so well that your veins spell out the lyrics. You, who looks and sounds and _feels_ like Marilyn. You, Ivy Lynn, who was actually _in costume_ not _six hours_ ago, for a part they dangled in front of you not once, but twice, before carelessly tossing it away. And here you sit, in front of your mirror, decidedly un-Marilyn.

Or not.

Your eyes fly to your purse.

Maybe this is your biggest Marilyn moment yet. As Karen hits a high note and there's more applause, you fish the ever-present pill bottle from your bag, leftover from your brief stint as a leading lady in the workshop. Since _Heaven on Earth _you have been on the square, not daring to even twist the cap and risk your job. You never let the bottle leave your purse, though, like some twisted version of a security blanket. Now you open it with slow, calculated movements and empty its contents into your manicured palm. There's at least eleven pills, maybe more. If you swallow them now, would you be immortalized forever?

Probably not. There'd be an initial panic (you hope) after you don't show up for bows, but it'd be fueled by more inconvenience than concern. After the curtain call, everyone would burst into tears, like thespians do. Eileen would smugly smile at Jerry, and good for her. You heard that Lyle kid was here; maybe she'll celebrate with him. Linda would go find a fly operator to yell at because the "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" set change took too long tonight. Jessica and Bobby and everyone would hug Iowa because they're loyal to whoever's been nice to them most recently, and you're woman enough to admit that you've been on a moping streak.

Pretty much everyone would congratulate Karen – even Derek, you're guessing. Are you two broken up? You' couldn't tell when you confronted him, and you're not sure if having visions of another woman as Marilyn Monroe counts as cheating.

It does. It totally does.

You don't know whether to be completely angry with him, or to be worried that with the pressure of tech, he's finally lost it. Maybe you two deserve each other after all.

Julia and Tom would find each other for their post-curtain ritual, something that involves three matches for two cigarettes and then hugging each other and crying. And Sam would work his way in there to praise the theatre gods, and then he'd go find you.

That's right – Sam would look for you. Sometimes you forget how much you value him as a friend, but he's a good guy and there's at least one person who'd miss you. Yes, he'd be all concerned like he was during _Heaven on Earth_ and he'd find you, probably not far from where you're sitting right now, pill bottle on the counter.

Yikes. That's really morbid.

Says the girl with the handful of pills.

You do this more times than you'd like to admit, actually – picturing your own death. Or rather, how people would react to it. You've come to measure you life in how many people would miss you if you disappeared. Right now you have Sam. And Tom.

Tom's such a sweet guy – now there's someone who's always been in your corner. He would miss you, right?

He would. He definitely would and why are you even doing this right now? Can you _be_ more pathetic? It's supposed to be dramatic, thinking about your own death, and you can't even do that right because you've named all of two people.

Well, alright, that's not true.

Because somewhere in the back of your mind there's always your mother. After all, she did drive all the way from _Connecticut_ to see you tonight. That counts for something, right? Of course, that was when she thought you were Marilyn. You wonder if she stayed for the show anyway. Honestly, you wouldn't be surprised if she really did drive home.

You hate that you let her down as much as you do.

Just like Derek.

You can't even begin to imagine what Derek would do or say when he hears about this, he's so unreadable. Would he wordlessly shake his head in disappointment, try to jerk you awake in disbelief, maybe say something about being sorry? There are a thousand different ways this could go, and it scares you to death (ha) that even though the most plausible course is him going straight to Karen, you care more about what Derek thinks of you than anyone else.

So if there's even a chance he cares at all – just a tiny flicker of affection – you are going to _take it_.

What did Bobby say this morning, a million years ago? _"I'll tell you one thing, Ivy wouldn't run."_

And you replied, _"No, I wouldn't."_

And you meant it.

So what the hell are you doing?

This is running. This is taking the easy way out – a cheap stunt to steal attention away from Karen-freaking-Cartwright. And she doesn't deserve your time. You've been doing this all wrong. A real _grande dame_ of the stage wouldn't and shouldn't bother with the Karen Cartwrights of the world. She would just swiftly and expertly take her rightful place as the lead – in her life, in Derek's life, and in _Bombshell_.

There's a favorite picture of Marilyn that you keep tucked in your mirror at whatever venue you're playing – you've had it long before _Bombshell _existed. It was taken at a beach, and she's just leaping into the air, arms outstretched, hair flying everywhere, not even noticing the photographer. It's probably the happiest you've ever seen her. Would she want you to be sitting here right now, when there's moments like that to be had?

Well, what a cute little _It's a Wonderful Life_ moment that was.

Cliché or not, it helps a little to imagine somebody cares. And between her, Tom, Sam, Mom, and even Derek, and why not throw in your ensemble friends, well, that's a pretty decent group.

You look at yourself in the lighted vanity, tentatively at first, unsure of how you'll look after your little mental battle. But for somebody as depressed as you, you really do make an impression. Maybe it's the stage makeup, maybe it's the adrenaline, but you know how to _glow_. You stare at your own shadow self in the mirror, until she's replaced with you and your ferocity.

You dump the pills down the sink, and toss the bottle in the trash. Time for a game change.

"_...and let me be that star!"_

Screw Iowa. Ivy Lynn is no one's second choice.


End file.
